The Problem
by taigasanchez
Summary: I think Isabella Swan has a bit of a...problem...in this story. She's divorced, dejected, and detached, but a man who just so happens to be her boss might just change that. The helper will become the helpee in this amateur fiction about lust and revelation.


Chapter One

**The Problem.**

Seven a.m.—get up, take a shower, get dressed, leave Lulu's apartment, get coffee, get a cab, and get to work. I had nearly forty-two case files, reports, and crisis' to take care of and stupidly fell behind the day before. Human Resources was a maze, especially if you were in corporate, dealing with international _and_ local difficulties—you'd think these people could keep their emotions at home. No, that's not possible—it would only be so inconvenient for a man to not ogle their fellow co-worker solely because their skirt is a bit flattering, or a syndicate of five-year-old businesswomen to stay within the parallels of gossip regarding sales taxes and stock as opposed to 'omg what is she wearing?'. No, that's improbable—for an individual to be homosexual and that reciprocal gender to be okay with the fact—not a fucking chance. They come straight to me.

_You're a wild card, Bella_ is what my mother would always tell me. _You're going to be the biggest thing since the mobile phone_, she claimed. Life was something I had figured out at a very young age, I was quick as a whip, savvy, intelligent—or so I was told. I went to ninth grade for all of two weeks before I was skipped to the twelfth, graduating that same year as valedictorian and 'most likely to kick ass.' From then on I indulged myself in the arts of science, I never strayed from my research as an graduate, and received my masters at the age of twenty two.

I became…repellant.

Some people assumed that it was because of my upbringing, but both of my parents were loving people and neither of them pushed me to do anything I didn't want to. My mother was a bit of a delicate soul; she never cursed, and she always saw the good in everything. My dad was her polar opposite, grumpy, irate, never saw the wonder in anything—quite the stickler. A bit of a countryman—enjoyed hiking and fishing and blah, blah, blah. It is beyond me that they are still together to this very day. My eldest brother was unbearably bright, he could beat me in everything—sports, fashion, school I never stood a chance, though he chose not to skip any grades, he still received his doctorate right on schedule.

Concerning the progress of my life…it wasn't exactly how I expected it to unwind, but I presumed that it would end the way that I wanted it to one way or another regardless. My will-to-succeed art would shine through, as it always did—or so I thought, but around the time when everything appeared to be going right, it all went wrong.

If docility were a side-effect of rage, then that must surely have been where I stood for a very long time. I was always a quiet, reserved, shy—timid person, but this really messed all that up from me. The entirety of one bullshit situation had left me so drained that I had become drunk to the aspect of living, learning…loving. I made a mountain of mistakes by lying to myself and everyone around me, claiming I was happy, allowing ignorance to cloud my vision. It wasn't until I believed I died that I understood. I'd come to rationalize that it is simply one bullshit situation to move you, rile you, _change_ you for the better. And something did rile me, but it was _not_ what I expected at all and yet—it was exactly what I needed.

"Mrs. Dawson?" I twitched at that accursed name as a completely unfamiliar voice called out to me. Turning around in my desk chair I saw a petite, red-headed lady peeking around my doorway. When she caught my eye her eyebrows rose to her hairline. I'd just got into work not three minutes ago and started on my work, and already I was being disturbed. People wondered why I rarely got a damn thing done on Tuesday's, and I'm beginning to understand myself the reason. "I'm Laura Linney, secretary to Mr. Cullen—" She began, and I swear it felt as if someone punched me in the gut—but wait! It gets better. "He's asked to see you in his office." And boom goes the dynamite.

I nodded once, baffled—Mr. Cullen wanted to speak to me? Mr. Cullen never spoke to anyone in corporate, especially not the human resources psychologist. I was working my doctorate there as a favor to my overbearing uncle who wouldn't have taken no for an answer, and I have to say—I hated it, but Uncle Richard was apparently close to Mr. Cullen's father Carlisle, and got me in on a great deal and salary and it would have been deemed as illogical to refuse. So there I was, hating myself again.

Mr. Cullen worked twelve floors above corporate—the very top floor. I'd only ever seen him in conferences around the building, and sat at least twenty chairs away from where he did. The man was fucking intangible, had I never laid eyes on him I would have written the guy off as a myth. They were merely glimpses though, but they burned into my corneas like molten lava. Oh yeah—he was a sex symbol…if that does him justice. Imagine the sexiest guy you can think of…now double it.

Not even close.

Why the hell would the owner and proprietor of the multi-trillion dollar company I worked for—a man who barely had time for lunch— want to speak with me? To my bloody irreverent knowledge—he had little to no knowledge of my existence. Considering there were a mass of over thirty three thousand employees at Cullen Trading & Securities, I practically blended into the walls of my sparse little office, and my sparse little office into the walls of my floor—there was seldom any contact between him and I. I'm sorry that was completely off—I had _never _come within thirty feet of the man before and had no idea who he was aside from the obvious fact that he signed my paychecks.

Ms. Linney frowned, and she disappeared from my office door and towards the elevators. I took a moment to collect myself at my desk before nervously and awkwardly pushing away from it and standing, smoothing my grey pencil dress in the process. My dreary job left little room for style and individuality. The people I worked with were dry—I blended right in as far as I was concerned. Living never presented itself as an option for me—I merely existed. I spent the majority of my glory years with my head buried six feet under the thickest biology book I could find. I'd grown to be a shell as my time flew, like a mussel with no meat. I married a man whom my family presumed was my ticket to happiness—ludicrous assumption—the only thing he married that day was my parents money, anyone with eyes could see he didn't care for me, and many did but the idea just never clicked. I feel inclined to admit that I wasted a portion of my life or that my youth was conducted improperly, but it was what it was, and if I could go back in a machine, I wouldn't have changed anything—sad right? I was a sad person…but you got used to me, if you took the time to stay.

Ms. Linney stepped into the elevator and I eased in beside her, a question banging inside my head. "Am I about to lose my job?" That wasn't the question, but it seemed appropriate. Okay no—it didn't but I wanted to ask regardless. How the hell would she possibly know what he wanted?

The tiny red-headed lady shook her head once. "I don't know." That helped.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. She was impassive—I _loathed_ impassive people, they were the stain of society in my opinion. 'Oh you have cancer? Bummer.' She spoke in that familiar dead, I-don't-give-a-shit tone and it chaffed me like a pair of thongs…made of sandpaper. "Are you positive that it was_ me_ he asked for?"

She didn't even flinch. "Isabella Dawson? Corporate Human Resources, right?" She asked dutifully, checking her little clipboard to see if she'd made a mistake—she did. My last name hadn't been Dawson for over two weeks, but I didn't correct her.

I half-nodded, though she wasn't looking at me. "Yep, I have the right person alright." I don't know if she saw me nod or not, or if it was just her being a snippy twat, but I contemplated flipping her off to confirm my theory that she would have clearly stared idly if I spontaneously combusted in the middle of this elevator.

When the metal box dinged, she led me off and towards a pair of large, silicon industrial doors straight ahead. I'd worked in this company for three years and had never been on the top floor—ever. It was pure white, everything was either glass or colorless and disturbingly clean. A huge, white ellipse desk sat in the middle of the enormous room and a brunette sat behind there, answering phone calls and pulling her pretty long hair at the roots, clearly stressed.

Did I mention she was also dressed in fucking white?

She pushed the door open to allow me entrance. "Go on in, Mrs. Dawson." I wanted so badly in that moment even though I was possibly going to get fired in the next five minutes, to yell at her with all the might in my lungs to not call me by that surname as long as she continued to live, and judging by the crows feet adorning the corners of her eyes, and the lines creasing her large forehead—that wouldn't have been long.

Mr. Cullen was waiting at his desk, staring patiently as I entered. When the door seemed to click behind me almost automatically, I flinched. His office was so bright; it was like something out of a magazine. The walls were white, the ceiling high, and the carpet was white and I wondered right there—why so much white? The windows were to my left—they projected television, playing the Channel 2 news about what's going on today in New York City on mute.

"Mrs. Dawson. Please have a seat." He gestured to the expensive, Italian leather seat in front of him—shockingly brown. I lowered myself calculatingly into the chair, my eyes never leaving his.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Cullen?" I asked, my voice bordering on inaudible.

He cleared his throat before he spoke, leaning farther back into his seat. "Mrs. Dawson."

"Swan." I argued softly, risking a glance at my intimidating boss. His eyes threw me—yes—_threw_ me. They were like ocher—my mistake—they _were _ocher, as plain as day.

Mr. Cullen cocked an eyebrow, his silent gaze leaving much to be desired. "Miss Swan I'm terribly sorry about your divorce." He said all in one breath, ripping the bandage off without preamble.

I felt my breath hitch slightly, my skin prickle. I opened my mouth to speak but it slammed right closed again on its own, my teeth ground against one another as I stared at my twiddling fingers in my lap.

Fuckin' _A_, man.

I was freaking speechless, humiliated—my boss' boss' boss knew that not two weeks prior the rug had been pulled from underneath me by my husband of two years, and he took everything I had with him—including our apartment that I spent a quarter of a million dollars remodeling. I saw it coming, but I didn't think he'd actually _do_ it, if that makes any sense. I didn't think he had the guts… I was wrong, he fucked me (not very well might I add) over, and that resulted in my having to crash at my best friend's house until it could finally sink in for my parents that they set me up with a complete tool. So far—in prison stick marks…about fifteen days.

I didn't tell anyone at the office about my divorce, but my family was very prominent in that forsaken city and if something spontaneous happened within our ranks, it was everyone else who found out before the rest of us. The idea that my _boss' boss' boss _knew how fucking pathetic I was as a human being…I'd had much, much better mornings. Those mornings consisted of spilling hot coffee on my shirt, or getting the back of my car totaled on the freeway.

I hated sympathy—it made me sick. People don't _care_. These courtesies are known as social graces. I was schooled very thoroughly in them before I could walk on my own.

Human nature is so flawed and fake until the fact can't be humored anymore. We lie, we steal, we _cheat_ with young, blonde stick-figure bitches named Samantha, and we don't give shits. Adultery is not a right, it's a crime, a sin if I know a damn thing about one, and pity is a defect and I didn't need it, especially not from my _damn_ boss. With him it seemed more like—'I'm sorry but I really don't give a shit, I'm only being polite'. It echoed off of him—he didn't care—he had another agenda, and my divorce was just a stepping stone in his road to the actual reason I was here.

Mr. Cullen leaned forward, resting his elbows on his huge, cherry oak desk. There were very few truths in my little world—one of them was that Edward Cullen was the single most attractive man I'd ever had the pleasure of being within five feet of. He was what perfection strived for; like the way condensation so desperately desires to be a liquid that it resorts to attaching itself to something else in order to solidify. And that's what perfection did with him, clung desperately but could never amount or match.

His hair was dark, curly and unruly, and that obvious, cliché image of me running my hands through it quickly popped into my mushy brain—I slapped it down. His eyes were almond-shaped, and a perfect blade made of nose sat between them. His cheekbones were hollowed out and spoke volumes to that perfect facial structure they laid upon. Thick, full lips made me nearly whimper in submission, but what got me was that perfect jaw and the dark five o' clock shadow that adorned it. Oh yes—he was edible.

Could I say that? Oh well—I did.

"I fully understand that this is a bad time for you, but—" He paused, and my head snapped up to meet him so fast it nearly made a sound. There was pain etched in his pristine features, his blade-like nose seemed to crinkle slightly as he formulated the thoughts clearly jumbling in his head. I could see anarchy waging in his golden orbs, and immediately, the most unexpected, my worst fears were seemingly, all at once, surfaced.

The words might as well have tumbled out of my mouth. "You're firing me." I stated—not asked.

Those bottomless eyes that made the sun look like a flashlight stared back at me with no answer, his dark brows twitching slightly in reserved…annoyance? His mouth twitched as well, almost microscopically. "Miss Swan you're not fired." He said with a bite to his tone, running a hand through his messy curls in exasperation. "Do you honestly think I would call you all the way up here just to fire you? I have people for that on your floor."

I felt a wash—a _hurricane _of relief crash over me in that moment and my shoulders that I hadn't even realized were tensed, relaxed instantly. "Oh…" I muttered, looking down again.

He stood from his chair and turned to look out his crystal hi-tech floor to ceiling television windows. I took that opportunity to inappropriately, but shamelessly ogle his perfect ass, leaning to the side in my chair for a full, uninterrupted view. He was wearing an undoubtedly expensive three-piece, his blazer draped over the back of his desk chair and his sleeves bunched up—not rolled up—at the elbows…irritated the hell out of me. It was all black—except for his tie which was a flamingo pink that should have been harsh in comparison to the black, but just made his appearance more dynamic. His body was the kind you just want to lick and touch, that topical Francisco Lachowski, John Stamos kinda thing with the leg-to-arms ratio.

When he turned around to meet my eyes again, I snapped back into place. "I lied." He said simply.

I made a confused face, tilting my head.

"Beg your pardon?" I muttered, studying him as if he were one of my science projects.

"I lied, Miss Sinclair, I'm not sorry that you're divorced." He shrugged. My jaw hit the floor. A plane flew by. A lot of things happened right then.

I found myself saying, "That's good." Before I could realize it. "You shouldn't be—because I'm not." I mirrored his shrug. I wasn't sorry, I was sick of the marriage; I was sick of Douglas and his lies. I was sick of going home everyday to a man who didn't care whether or not I did, and I was nauseated from constantly finding other women's lingerie sitting around my house shamelessly—I_ needed_ a divorce; it was imperative, and I never felt fucking better.

A semblance of a smile began to pull at the corner of his beautiful mouth.

He crossed his arms and turned his body around so that he fully faced me. "Miss Sinclair you've worked for my company for nearly four years now, and you've been a very exceptional employee."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cullen—" I interjected, growing wary and slightly annoyed. "But could you please tell me why I'm here and cut the fluff? I have a lot of work to do." Okay—not appropriate—did it anyway. Balls…meet floor.

He cocked an eyebrow, and his eyes widened in suit. Padding around the desk to stand in front of me, he leaned against the heavy wood. With a very intent look—calculating, he studied me for a moment, and opened his mouth to speak. "I need your help." He asked, and scratched the back of his neck. Oh dear…was he…nervous?

Edward Cullen was nervous?

"My help? Me? You?" I stammered incredulously—slightly amused…more or less. Perhaps it was an internal issue with the company? No, no—why would he call me here over a freaking internal issue with the company as a whole. I dealt with the issues of the people in that company—not the political, demographic, or economical ones.

"Miss Swan, I'm not quite sure how to say this…" He murmured, his eyes looking everywhere but at me.

"You try...just—saying it?" I offered, shaking my head but barely.

He was hesitant to speak—_very _hesitant like anything he would say to me from that point on would self-destruct or collapse into itself. He was visibly nervous: biting his bottom lip, fidgeting with the fabric of his trousers, eyes darting all over the place. It was like when I walked in he was about as uncollected as the Library of Congress and now he's about as collected as my shoe closet back at home (note to you—my shoe closet is a fucking disaster).

"Miss Swan—" He finally seemed to find the tiniest bit of composure, his clear, focused eyes settling on me without waver. "I need you to teach me how to feel." He said sternly—no bullshit, his gaze never exiting mine.

I blinked—hard.

…_Okay? Huh?_

Clearing my throat to speak, I looked up to him towering over me. He was roughly twenty feet tall, and seeing as I was sitting down in front of him, I had to crane my neck to the point of uncomfort to meet his gaze."Um…." I muttered softly, pushing a long mahogany curl behind my ear. "What?"

He threw his head back, laughing at the top of his lungs, exuding his hilarity. My eyes glazed over slightly and I wondered what was so funny. When he finally calmed himself enough to speak again, he had to go and say: "You are so…awkward." I could visibly see his shoulders quivering.

Was he serious? He asks me—a complete stranger…his _subordinate_—to 'teach him how to _feel_' and I'm the dunderhead here? He did understand that I worked for him, right?

The day couldn't have possibly gotten any worse. I was on the verge of cracking, and I never 'cracked' I was harder than a brick made of lead; my psyche was made of cast-iron—_nothing_ could faze me. My brother used to call me the leper of the family, and a cold bitch but that's neither here nor there.

I made an inwardly confused face, squinted my eyes together, and opened one to catch a glimpse of his face. "You say you want me to teach you how to feel, but..." I paused, searching for my voice. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

He chuckled into his hand and gave me a strange look."It's simple, Miss Swan." He stated, a sarcastic grin pulling at his mouth. He was toying with me now. "I heard that you were one of the greatest young psychologists in this city, and the fact that you happen to work for me is nothing short of a plus." He shrugged.

I leaned forward, irritation pushing through me slowly, surely. "If you wanted a session—why didn't you come to _my_ office?"

His brows threaded questioningly, and he gave me a look as if I was a complete and utter moron. "I'm a very busy man, Miss Swan. I don't have time for such things."

"Then you surely don't have time for this, then." I mumbled, making a move to stand. He held his hand up, motioning for me to halt, and I did out of fear of losing my damned job. I sighed—what the hell was this stuck-up bastard's problem? 'oh I don't have time for such things Miss Swan I'm a very busy man'—well what the hell am I? I had all kinds of shit to do that day, I wasn't just an accessory to my floor. I could honestly say that I worked more than anyone there. Arrogant…fucking…jerk off.

"I don't understand Mr. Cullen—if you need my help, shouldn't you come to me?" I asked, incredulous, irritated.

"I have come to you." He remarks wryly, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

I shook my head, and could feel my locks twisting out of place from the motion. "I mean bring your physical body to me, not the opposite. When you need someone's help Mr. Cullen, usually, by the law of this ancient little virtue known as 'common courtesy'—" I airquoted. "You seek out the person you need help from, and go to _them_ as a gesture of respect."

His eyes were wide when I finished, like basketballs. He stared at me as if I was on fire before finally tearing those flaming bulbs away from me and to the ceiling. "You sure have a mouth on you don't you Miss Swan?" He asked in a deep, low, husky tone that made my belly flip with glee.

Was his voice that sexy the entire time?

When he looked back down at me he appears to be unfazed—yet again. His emotions were like freaking clockwork.

I sighed, exhausted by the conversation and wanting it to be over, wanting to get back downstairs to my office and start on my mountainous piles of work, and wanting to never have to come in contact with this God of a man again. "Listen Mr. Cullen, I could get a much better psychologist for you." I offered. "One who's had years of experience and is good with the human condition—I'm sure he will be very apt in helping you to 'feel'." Inwardly, I rolled my eyes and went to looking for a piece of paper and pen so I could write the name and number down.

Before I could even collect my thoughts, he was leaned forward, his body hovering atop mine, arms on either side of me, hands clamped down on the rests of the chair, and his face barely inches away from mine. "I don't think you understand, Isabella—I don't _want_ just any old bastards mumbling to me about how my emotions 'make me feel', I want _you_." His ocher bulbs searched my dark brown ones so thoroughly, as if the answers for the universe lied in them. "And I always get what I want." He said, and was 110% fucking serious when he did.

Ever been punched in the stomach really, really hard? Me neither, but I was pretty sure it felt something like this. I couldn't breathe, my heart was beating a mile a minute, and he was fucking relentless. His eyes flicked down to my mouth, and then back to my eyes, and then he bit his lip, and I sucked in a sharp breath of air to calm myself._ Didn't work._

"Mr. Cullen—" I breathed, I'd never been so terrified in my entire life, while at the same time shocked that I was so happy to be so damn terrified.

"I've come to you now, Miss Swan—will you help me?" He asked, his tone shockingly hopeful for someone who pretty much _knows _what my answer has to be.

I blinked, swallowed hard, and studied his beautiful face one more time before opening my mouth to speak. "What do you need me to do?"

A beautiful, breathtaking smile spread across his bright, sunlit face. Pushing away from my chair, he leaned back against his desk again, his mind traveling. "Well first, I'm gonna need you to wrap that smart-ass mouth of yours around my cock—would that be okay?"

Heart failure.

What did he just say to me? Did he just ask me to give him fellatio in the middle of his office? Is he serious? Am I _considering _this?

"I beg your _pardon?_" I grumbled.

He crossed his arms back again. "You're divorced, you're lonely—this could be good for you."

Son…of a bitch…"What the hell do you know about me?" I was _so_ getting fired today. One for not indulging this man, and two for ripping his eyeballs out and feeding them to him.

"I know that you are an intelligent woman, but you have a pole so far up your ass it's sticking out of your mouth."

Holy, fucking shit…he did _not._

I literally slid my fingers over my opposite arm and pinched down hard on the delicate skin underneath until I knew it would bruise, inwardly cursing at the pain of reality. Yep—awake.

He narrowed those damn death of me eyes and waited intently for…my response? "I do not have a pole up my ass. I am a _professional_—ever heard of one?"

"I'd like to train that gorgeous body of yours, Miss Swan. Make it a professional at something." He said—no fucking shame. It caught me way off guard, but I refused to give him the upper hand. I kept a straight face with no smiles, no frowns—just a gaze, and a blistering one at that.

"Running a marathon?" I said innocently.

He leaned forward, sticking his eyes to mine. "Harder. Much harder."

_Oh boy…_

This guy…"Are you honestly going to sit here and sexually harass the Human Resource worker?" I asked incredulously.

He actually _thought_ about it for a moment—the smug bastard. "Perhaps that would be ironic—if you actually felt you were being sexually harassed…which you do not." He quipped.

Damnit. He doesn't run this company just for show—the asshole has a brain on him, and he's perceptive, too.

I was growing irritated. "If I refuse—will you fire me?" I asked calmly, testing the waters.

When he smiled crookedly, my heart sank. His teeth were like pearls wrapped in white satin, they were the kind of straight and perfect that would make a dentist weep. Without saying a word or even attempting to, he shook his head, the smile never leaving his beautiful, symmetrical features.

"Will you fire me if I stood and left right now?" I risked, staring at him intently.

"No." He said, but barely, uncrossing his arms and sauntering back around his desk to sit down. "Feel free to leave." He used one hand to gesture towards the door.

"Just like that?" I asked suspiciously.

"Just like that." He repeated, resuming the work on his desk engagingly.

"Wow." I stated, attempting to stand. It was like a dream—it was strange, surreal, and he let it go as if it were absolutely nothing at all.

His eyes rose from his work but he didn't make an effort to face up. "I'll be seeing you of course, Miss Swan." Fuck he was disconcerting.

I tried throwing him a taste of his own medicine. "You're an interesting person, Mr. Cullen."

He reeled back, clearly surprised. "Why's that?" He asked, cocking one of those delicious eyebrows and flashing me a smug grin as he leaned back in his chair.

"Well you've got all this money and power, but you're clearly all alone." His face fell, and out wrenched from those eyes so morbid and full of predominate secrets a flicker of emotion that even I—who studied the human condition for a living—could not read. It flexed and curved through his features reluctantly and, almost as if a door had been slammed shut, it disappeared.

Mr. Cullen nodded confusedly. "You think so?"

I said nothing.

"Well you're at your job I can give you that." He said, giving nothing away.

I softly bit my lip to stop myself from asking him what his problem was, instead standing from the chair and heading towards the doors from which I entered.

Turning at the waist halfway through the door, I threw him one of my rare, trademark smiles that my dad always said could melt dry ice. "Feel free to come by _my_ office if you ever need someone to speak with, sir." I offered, fleeing from the room before I could catch his response and scurrying back to the safety of my tiny hole of an office.


End file.
